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Friday, 27 March 2015

It's ok to cry

It was a beautiful Saturday morning and I was having a meltdown.
I was tired, the PMT was raging, and I had just endured a spat with Mr
Chateauneuf over some nonsense. So all I wanted to do was to crawl into bed and
hide under the duvet – like any mature grown up would do.

I sat on the bed with my eyes
streaming, smudging mascara all over my face which made me look like an extra
from a medieval movie playing a peasant woman who hasn’t seen water in months. And
that’s exactly how my stepson, DeeQ, found me.

They say that men can’t deal with
tears. When faced with a crying woman they get lost, start mumbling ‘there,
there’ and frantically look for a way out. As soon as they see an opening in a
form of a ringing phone or even better – another woman who can take over – they
are off like greased lightning.

Amazingly, DeeQ didn’t exhibit
any signs of discomfort. He simply sat next to me stroking my back, murmuring
words of comfort. He then brought me a drink and suggested I sort out my face
because the dirty look did not go well with my complexion.

As I eventually managed to pull
myself together, DeeQ brought me a cup of camomile tea, an ice pack for my face,
and chatted to me about this really cute girl at school, while I was blow-drying
his hair. It was one of the best calm down techniques I have ever experienced.

Later that weekend we were having
a family dinner – our usual combination of roast dinner, negotiations over
eating vegetables (or eating full stop with Little Dude) and making plans. As
we started talking about summer holidays, DeeQ suddenly went quiet and covered
his face with his hands. I instantly knew what happened – something jogged a
memory of his mum.

I walked around the table and put
my arms around him. He was crying, he was back on a sunny beach – the last
holiday he had with his mum.

We all made an effort to distract
him, to make him laugh and dry out his tears; minutes later he was laughing
again and we all returned to our dinner.

I was watching him over the brim
of my wine glass. He was my brave boy who the day before brought me an ice pack
for my face and made me tea, who sat next to me, stroking my back while I was
having a meltdown. But he was just a boy who lost his mum way too early and had
to grow up way too fast.

And listening to his laughter I
couldn’t help but wonder, if the life experiences change us and make us grow,
then how much did DeeQ have to grow? Just how much of innocence was he deprived
of on that fateful night? How much did he change?

Lost in my thoughts, I
automatically went to touch the ring I wear as a charm around my neck, the ring
that belonged to my late mum.

It occurred to me that despite
the trauma of losing his mum way too early and having to grow up way to
quickly, DeeQ chose life. He allows himself to cry and learnt to comfort others;
he talks about his own experiences and is able to hold a conversation with
somebody who recently lost a loved one; he grieves his mum but he accepted me. He
became a mature interesting boy; he stood tall and strong; he rose above the
grief and didn’t let it hold him back.

And as I heard another burst of
laughter from across the table, my eyes welled up. And it wasn’t sadness this
time, they were happy tears – the tears of a proud stepmum.

Friday, 20 March 2015

No change - no butterflies

There comes a time in every
relationship when it is necessary to make a big step forward. For Mr
Chateauneuf and I that step is moving in together.

Having discussed the subject
profusely and drunk way too much alcohol over it, I finally put a plan
together. With a strict deadline in place we both started working
towards our goal.

For Mr Chateauneuf the
preparation at the moment is mainly about bracing himself for all things Tash intrusion into his life. As for me, I need to pass my
driving test, pack nine years of my life into boxes, decide what to keep and
what to get rid of, and give up my London flat that has been my castle and my
anchor for the past either years. So, no biggie…

And there is no better way of
going through a big transition like a move, than venting to close friends over a
pizza. In fact, these friends are so good that they agreed to adopt my dining
room chairs that I've decided to leave behind.

So a couple of weeks ago Captain
Geek and Caz came over for the usual pizza feast and to pick up my dining room
chairs. When I became close friends with these guys, I realised that you love
your friends not ‘because’ but ‘despite’ certain things….

I have always been an iPhone girl
while Captain Geek has been preaching Android and actively disliking Apple for
years. So it’s no wonder I didn’t tell him when I
upgraded my iPhone a couple of months ago.

That night we settled down over
the freshly delivered box of gooey goodness, when out of the blue Captain Geek asked
me if I liked my new phone.

I protectively clutched my iPhone
and braced myself for the next lecture on why Android phones are better than
their iRivals. To my surprise Captain Geek said that he was looking for a new
phone and was considering – wait for it – an IPHONE! I choked on my pizza.

From there everything was
happening in a slow motion – I handed him my iPhone and he spent the next 15
minutes going through it, mumbling to himself words like ‘good’, ‘hardware’ and
‘quality’. I was watching him is a stunned silence; on a couple of occasions I
opened my mouth to say something but no sound came out - I was in shock.

Eventually he handed me my phone
back and said that it was a great piece of kit. He sounded genuine as well. ‘Who are you and what have you done to my
friend?’ – was all I could say. I knew the pigs will fly sooner than Captain
Geek buys an iPhone.

But he said that there was
nothing on the market he liked and a new iPhone might just be the next thing
for him and casually took another bite from his pizza. As if the years of Mac
animosity haven’t existed. I knew people could change but this was the case of the
leopard changing its spots.

Later that evening when Captain
Geek and Caz left with my chairs I looked around my lounge and it felt somehow
different and empty. I knew I only lost the chairs but it was only the beginning
of giving up my flat, it would only get emptier.

I couldn’t help but wonder, if
Captain Geek changed his Android beliefs in favour of Mac, could I do the big
move? Could I really leave my London flat for a country house?

I opened the window and let the
fresh spring air in. Lost in my thoughts I stood by the window for a few
minutes when I saw a butterfly on the fence. It was strange seeing it in early
spring but it was a sign that the seasons changed and the winter was over.

As I was looking at the butterfly
I had a thought - as much as I love my London flat, I need to give it up in
order to move on into my future with Mr Chateauneuf. A change is needed – something good has to
finish, so that something even better can begin.

Change is scary but one thing for
sure – it nothing ever changed, there would be no butterflies.

Friday, 13 March 2015

#Madonnafell

The day after the Brit Awards I
turned on breakfast TV as usual and to my surprise the breaking news of the day
wasn’t Syria, Ukraine or even the latest revelations regarding Jimmy Saville. No,
the topic that seemed to be occupying everyone's time was Madonna’s falling
over.As soon as I typed ‘Madonna’ into
a search engine, the word ‘fall’ appeared right next to it. Overnight the
yellow press did its job and Madonna’s spectacular tumble went viral. There was
speculation as to what caused the unfortunate incident and who was to blame,
followed by brutal hashtag remarks like #NoCape, #shefellover and #whiplash.
(As it turned out her cape wouldn’t get undone at the key moment, and she was
pulled off the stairs and fell on her back.)I must admit, I was mesmerised.
For 15 whole minutes I regressed into being a teenager again, hungry for cheap
gossip and bad journalism.

Disgusted with myself, I shut
down the laptop went about my usual morning routine. Somewhere between a toast
with honey and applying mascara, I remembered that I still haven’t seen the
footage of the whole song, which was why I started the search in the first
place.I turned the laptop back on and
started searching for the footage of the whole song. Interestingly, it was a
lot harder to find as the whole population of Internet went crazy over those 30
unfortunate seconds out of Madonna’s life. Eventually I found what I was
looking for. The footage of the song was over five minutes while the fall –
only 30 seconds. As I was watching her fall ‘in context’ of the whole
performance, I suddenly saw a completely different picture.I saw a strong woman fall. It was
a dangerous fall, with a thud. But I also saw her get up and jump back straight
into the song. It was obvious she was in pain but she carried on her routine.
And she finished her performance beautifully.As I was watching her panting at
the end of the song I couldn’t help but wonder, what was going through her head
in those disastrous seconds? What did it cost her to get up? Did she consider
stopping the song altogether? She could’ve stopped and walked off
the stage but she didn’t. She got up, undid the cape and picked up exactly
where she left off. She was hurt physically but her spirit was intact; she showed
class, determination and professionalism. So in the space of 30 seconds
Madonna became my hero. I might not be a huge fan of her music, I might not
always understand her work or agree with her. But that morning, before 8am over
my coffee, she helped me to learn one of the most important lessons.We all make mistakes, we all fall
now and then. But the real trick is to bounce back and get moving again.
Because it’s not about how badly we fall, it’s how quickly we get up.

Thursday, 5 March 2015

Being a parent

The couple of years before
meeting Mr Chateauneuf were all about me. After my divorce I redecorated my
flat, bought myself a new bed and thoroughly enjoyed peaceful weekends when I
would wake up, make myself a cup of tea and cuddle up with a book on the sofa
in a complete silence.

Fast-forward a couple of years -
I fell in love with a great man and became a part-time stepmum (every other
weekend) to two adorable boys. My quiet, single gal’s existence became ancient
history.

These days from Friday night,
when they pick me up from the station until Sunday night, when the boys are
safely tucked into their beds, it is a constant whirlpool of homework crisis,
never-ending talks about football, arguing about whose turn it is to change the
litter tray and the constant flow of ‘Can you do/make/wash/drive/give…’, ‘Are
we going to McDonalds?’ and ‘Where is my…?’

By Sunday night I look forward to
that moment when the kids are fast asleep - after endless drinks, countless
hugs and kisses good-night, and tough negotiations about iPads in their beds - and
the only sound that breaks the silence is the cork popping out of a bottle.

In search of that elusive peace
and quiet Mr Chateauneuf whisked me away to sunny Lanzarote which in itself was
a luxury. The added bonus was that granny and granddad had the boys which meant
we had four nights child free.

The following few days was the
most relaxing time I can ever remember spending. The biggest decision we had to
make were which juice to have for breakfast or where to relax – the lounge or
the spa.

With no alarm and no diary to
follow, and barely aware of what time it was, we did whatever we wanted. On
sunny afternoons, if we felt adventurous, we would walk along the beach,
relishing the breeze from the ocean and the warmth of the sun; otherwise we
would simply sit in the lounge, flooded with sunshine, enjoying a cup of coffee
and catching up on emails, reading or writing.

Sometimes we would wander down to
the spa, where we would lie down on the spa beds - wrapped in warm towels -
pick up a book, read for half an hour, and then wake up hours later.

The only planned part (which we
really didn’t mind), in our otherwise completely unstructured days, was a cocktail
hour which usually lasted from after dinner till the last man standing.

In the blink of an eye our break
was over and we landed in cold Gatwick to the steady drumming of rain welcoming
us home. We both were rested and ready to be back to reality.

The following morning we picked
up the kids and drove to Eastbourne where Mr Chateauneuf booked two hotel rooms
for the night. To the boys’ delight the rooms were adjoining and they couldn’t
stop running from one room into another, like two happy puppies chasing a ball.

Later that night, after a long
walk, shopping and an afternoon tea - freshly showered and bathed - the four of
us found ourselves wrapped up in robes and spread on the giant bed watching a questionable
TV program, chosen by the boys. They smelt of shampoo, shower gel and were
noisily sucking on vibrant candies they bought earlier in the sweets shop.

And as we huddled under the
covers and I inhaled their familiar scents, something clicked. Up until that
moment I didn’t realise how much I loved and missed them. I looked at Mr
Chateauneuf who was peacefully dozing off and couldn’t help but wonder, when
did this happen? When did I become a mum? Was it even possible to be a mum to
kids I didn’t give a birth to?

DeeQ was snoozing with his arm
wrapped around me and Little Dude was still nursing his candy, while I was
stroking his hair. And somewhere in the serenity of that room I found my rest
and peace.

That’s the thing about being a
parent - I loved my romantic getaway with Mr Chateauneuf, with its classy
evenings in the piano bar over a cocktail.But after a few days I couldn’t wait to come home. Because I missed my
boys.